


The Blogger's Fate

by QueerCanary (queercanary)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BBC Sherlock - Freeform, Crime Scene, Harm to children (mentioned/implied), Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Two Endings, death mention
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2020-12-16
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:41:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 14,081
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28033335
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/queercanary/pseuds/QueerCanary
Summary: *This is an Archive of an older Fic I originally posted on a different site, so I can hold all of my fics in one place, on one account*Verbatim Original Summary: During a case, there is a careless driver, slippery ground, and a crash. Watson is dying.
Relationships: Sherlock Holmes/John Watson
Comments: 6
Kudos: 6





	1. A Nightmare

**Author's Note:**

> Literally my first Fanfiction I ever wrote-- I was 12 and 13 while writing this and publishing it on FanFiction. (Just to clarify I am now an adult lol.)
> 
> Note: This is fundamentally a republish of my old works (and also fulfilling a big promise to younger me & the original purpose of this account). As such, I would still love to receive comments and interaction on this, but I’m not rewriting (this will be exactly how I wrote as a 12/13 year old), and simply rereading before posting to make simple grammatical edits for ease of reading (and also a trip down memory lane). 
> 
> Not to be that person, but I’m really not looking for constructive criticism on this piece for this reason.

Cold, creeping, a sensation of rushing water tumbled through Sherlock. It seemed to run down from his shoulders and become a thick cloak around his shoulders, then down his back. A deep sense of forbidding crept upon a sleeping Sherlock like a panther, stalking in the undergrowth looking for its next prey. The world's only consulting detective shot straight up on the couch, rubbing the back of his head. When had he fallen asleep? Sherlock stood up and pulled back the curtains to the flat he shared with John (who could easily be called his best friend, oh alright, his only).

The darkness outside was complete. Only the very few meek street lamps provided any light, and that light was slowly fading away. After he solved his current case, a murder of a whole group of small children in a late-night day-care facility, he would have to check out what had happened to keeping the city clean, bright, and safe. Sherlock looked at the horizon, seeing the distant warmth of the sun that was starting to peak over the crowded and stuck-together city buildings. Might as well get ready.

John woke early, not as early as his flat-mate, mind you, but still early enough to see the first brilliant and golden rays of the sun sneak their way into his window, between the curtains. The window had been left open, and the air smelt clean and fresh, full of passed and promising rain. The doctor had been aware Sherlock had passed out on the couch, after four consecutive nights and days of working on a case without food or sleep, so he walked out of Sherlock's room gently. John had been helping Sherlock with their case, or rather acting as someone Sherlock could recite his findings and deduce things aloud to, and after Sherlock had been simply too tired to continue, John decided to sleep in his friend's bed, too tired and lazy to walk up a flight of stairs.

The kitchen smelt wonderful. This was a pleasant change, as Sherlock mainly used the kitchen to house experiments, and it therefore usually smelt of death and/or decay. The sink was full of dishes, and a single plate sat invitingly on the table. Sherlock's microscope and tissue samples were pushed up against the coffee maker, files taking their place. The dinning table was barely visible beneath stacks of paper. A mug was filled generously to the brim with steaming coffee, the plate on which a scrambled egg and two pieces of toast was clean. John Watson had no memory of cleaning the plates, but the sink was empty. He walked over and opened the cupboard to find the cups, plates and bowls neat, clean, and in perfect order so one would not have to shove things around to find what they needed. The food was getting cold, or so it looked to John. It was a pity to waste food that whoever had worked so hard to prepare.

Sherlock bustled in to find John sipping the last of his coffee, his eyes glaring intently at one of the many files on the children who had been killed. He left his coat and scarf on, not bothering to remove what he soon would be pulling back on. He slid into the chair opposite to his companion. "Are we going to the crime scene today, Sherlock?" John asked, looking at his still-coat-clad friend.

"Yes. Lestrade finally asked us up." Sherlock said, absentmindedly.

"About time." John said, trying his best to sound fully awake.

Upon John's last sip of his coffee, Sherlock jumped to his feet and dashed toward the door. As usual, John was expected to follow close behind Sherlock. He heard the door open, and decided it was time to chase after Holmes, onto the crime scenes he so indecently enjoyed.


	2. A Crime Scene Mishap

"It was a poison." Sherlock began, "That killed these children."

"How so?" Lestrade questioned, ready for the usual strange, out-of-this-world theory that would follow and later prove to be true,

"If it is one thing most children enjoy doing, it is eating. Now, this day care center is open for 19 hours, which ensures that they feed the children that are there breakfast, lunch and dinner, often times with a snack in between." Sherlock stated matter-of-factly.

"Yes, that is correct." Lestrade replied.

"At the time the bodies were found, they were already cold, which suggested they had been dead for at least 2 or 3 hours. The proper dinner time is 6 o'clock, and the bodies had been found at 8 o'clock. They had been dead for two hours. Because children are small, it would not take as much time for a poison to travel through their bodies and kill them as it would for an adult. Most likely about 20 minutes for the child to completely die. Which, to put an exact time, the children have been dead for exactly 1 hour 40 minutes." Sherlock informed the group.

"Alright. So assuming it was a toxin…" Lestrade began, only to be cut off by Sherlock.

"It is a Toxin, Lestrade. There is not a single mark on any of the children. If someone had suffocated a child, there would be a lack of air in their blood stream. Your tests have told me that the children had a perfectly normal amount of air in their lungs, which if they had been suffocated would have been otherwise. They have not been drowned either. Victims of drowsing would have been wet, even if they had been found less than 2 hours later. It takes longer for a dead body to dry off completely than a living one." Sherlock practically stormed. "There were no visible finger prints, am I correct?"

"No, but that doesn't mean anything. The killer could have been wearing gloves." Lestrade replied.

"There are no traces of latex, correct?"

"Yes." Lestrade practically hung his head as he confirmed Sherlock's inquiry.

"The only gloves they have here are latex-based. Latex has a rather foul smell that would have clung to any of the children's bodies, but there is no smell. There is not a single disturbance in any of the skin of hairs on each of those bodies. They took a nap, and never woke up." Sherlock concluded.

"On the bodies we took a test on, there were no traces of any toxin." Lestrade continued the conversation.

"Sulfuric acid." Sherlock replied simply.

"Come again?"

"Sulfuric acid is a toxin that can easily be hidden in drinks, especially of those who do not pay attention to what they are drinking. Example, hungry and thirsty children. After the toxin kills, it is known to completely dissolve in the in-takers blood. Therefore, the blood tests you may have taken could not have detected sulfuric acid." Sherlock said this with such an air of finality no one could argue. Everybody stood silent for a moment before Anderson piped up.

"Who was the killer then?" Sherlock sighted with impatiens.

"Even Lestrade could figure that one out." He snapped. Feeling the cue, Lestrade took his best stab.

"The caretaker?" He tried. When Sherlock glared at him, he knew he had missed it.

"No. The caretaker would not have time to place a toxin in even a drink. The chief puts the food there, out on that hang-over, and then the current care-taker picks up the food and put's it in front of the child."

"Then, the cook?" John asked, hoping he had gotten it right.

"Obviously." Sherlock replied. "I understand that you guys don't have half the brains even John has, but it is so clear, one of the dead children could have gotten it in a split second."

"No. I don't think so." Lestrade crossed his arms.

"John, was it not obvious?" Sherlock was dragging his best-flat-mate into this.

"Actually this time it was." John replied confidently.

"Well," Sherlock persisted, "Where does the cook live, and what is her name?" Lestrade, Anderson, and some of the other guys there looked at each other, each hoping the other knew the answer. Lestrade was bold enough, and in a slightly shaking voice, replied.

"Well, we don't actually know." He said. Everyone in that room shifted on their feet, knowing the rage of the genius standing in front of them was about to happen.

"You don't even know her name? Not knowing her address would have been fine, we have the internet, but no name? How do you expect me to solve the case!?" Sherlock's voice was clam, smooth, and cold as ice for the first words, but as his sentence drew on, his words gained more fire. He did not yell, nor scream. That was children to do. What he did do, though, was gain spite. He practically spat the word "case" like it had the swine flue. The tall, dark, jacket clad Sherlock began to pace, muttering to himself. His eyes swerved around the room, looking for something he could deduce to at least find the woman's name.

"Sherlock, if you give us a couple of days, like three or four, we can get her address. We just need time to find the boss, her name and address…" Lestrade tried.

"You don't even know the bosses name and address!?" Sherlock spat. His fuming continued. "Three, four days!? That is too long. The killer could be gone by then, if not already!"

"Sherlock, you don't understand!" Lestrade screamed. Sherlock lost control and raised his voice to match.

"I DON"T UNDERSTAND!?" He roared. John jumped and backed away quickly. He had never heard Sherlock raised his voice above spitting, let alone at another person. It didn't feel right.

"NO YOU DON'T! YOU CAN JUST WALK TO ANY CRIME SCENE AND DEDUCE OR WHATEVER IT IS YOU DO, AND KNOW THE ANSWER IN A MATTER OF MINUTES. YOU TREAT EVERYONE ELSE LIKE THEY'RE STUPID!" Lestrade thundered. Anderson sort of cowered into the doorway.

"COMPARED TO ME, EVERYONE ELSE IS STUPID!" Sherlock countered, rising his voice even more. His face was becoming red on the edges, it was clear he was straining to yell as loud and still pronounce everything correctly, to still sound smart.

"YOU ACT LIKE IT'S A BIG SECRET, ABOUT WHAT YOU DO! LIKE WE CAN'T DO WHAT YOU DO! LIKE NO ONE ELSE CAN!" Lestrade didn't look the least bit strained, like he yelled this loud every day. John had to admit, his head was pounding. Everyone else was backing out of the doorway, to look in at the fight but hardly hear it. John, however, was just a few meters away, transfixed.

"OH, SO YOU DON'T WANT ME AROUND ANYMORE?" Sherlock bellowed. This was the final straw for Lestrade.

"NO, PERHAPES WE DON'T! PERHAPS WE HAVE WATCHED YOU MAKE A FOOL OF US LONG ENOUGH AND WE CAN FIGURE IT OUT NOW! YOUR FIRED, SHERLOCK HOLMES!" Lestrade's face was full of hate. John could tell he really meant it. "GET OUT!". No one could deny that Lestrade was absolutely serous. His face was almost purple with rage, his hand shaking with anger so much, his extended pointer finger kept moving from the floor to the ceiling to the door. Sherlock ran both his hands down his coat, and turned around.

"Come on John, lets go. It is clear they never want to catch whoever killed these children, or ever catch any killer ever again." Sherlock replied like he always did when Lestrade didn't give him the information he wanted, fused with ice but calm. Lestrade glared at John, almost daring him to stay, to betray Sherlock. John glared back, apparently so full of hate and rage Lestrade actually jumped back a bit.

John thought he would never leave Sherlock, even if his friend crossed and ocean, he would follow. Sherlock had helped him regain his confidence, his full stride, and his will to live. He felt he owed Sherlock, but was that all he felt? Every time he looked at his best friends high check bones and perfect curly hair, looked straight into his deep and bright ocean blue eyes, he lost it. There was nothing that could explain the way his heart beat every time Sherlock touched him, even in the slightest. No, he would never ever leave Sherlock's sid


	3. The Argument Continues

Sherlock fumed. The flat seemed to be on fire at times, the rage often times so evident it could burn a small animal to a crisp. John sat in his chair, trying to read the papers while Sherlock paced back and forth. John could understand, work was his life. Sherlock took in air only to continue his work, food only to survive. Being told someone could easily replace him as the only consulting detective probably stung more then John realized. But still, it had been a week. The pacing was becoming annoying. "Stop it Sherlock. You're going to burn a whole in the carpet!" John snapped.

"Oh, so you don't want me around anymore either?!" Sherlock raged. His voice climbed easily now days.

"It's been a week. You can stop moaning for yourself!" John yelled back. Sherlock glared at him, a glare that had only been used on Mycroft before. John jumped, and admittedly hung his head a bit. Before John had meet Sherlock, all he had was his work. When John came along, and they became friends, Sherlock stilled did everything for his work but seemed to appreciate John's company. They had never fought before this last week. It hurt John, but he could tell it hurt Sherlock more. "I'm sorry Sherlock." John said sadly. His friends face had anguish written all over it.

"No, John, I'm sorry. I started yelling, and I have been moping." Sherlock admitted as he slumped onto the couch, his face between his long fingers. "It's just, my life was work. I have never known love or friendship before you came." John blinked. Had Sherlock just said…..

"Well, that can't be true. I'm sure someone had a crush on you, at some point?" John asked. He had to admit, he wanted Sherlock to have had someone before him, besides his family. When the words love and friendship had been put into a sentence, along with before he came, meant that John had shown him these things. Even though John had inexplicable feelings when Sherlock looked at him straight and touched him…. He was NOT in love with Sherlock.

"Oh, well…. No. No one in school. I was too smart for them, I guess I intimidated them or something. I never beamed or punched the air when I got an A, I always got and A. I was different from everyone." Sherlock replied, "Very few people even looked at me. I've never kissed anyone apart from my mother's good-night kisses." A stone dropped in John's stomach. He had never really thought about Sherlock as a child, Sherlock and his first kiss, Sherlock and his first girlfriend, Sherlock and the year he almost failed, Sherlock and his first true love, Sherlock and being expelled, Sherlock and any other normal childhood milestone. None of those things really happened. Not for him, not for his best friend.

"I'm, sorry." John replied. It seemed feeble. When Sherlock talked about his lack of friends he seemed content, okay with it. Even so, John felt back for him. Those two words, could have been three, were so feeble and so small. They felt wrong in his mouth, and when the came out, the silence that followed made John feel even more like he had said the wrong thing.

"Are you okay?" Sherlock asked, looking at John straight into his brown eyes with those blue piercing ones.

"I'm fine. Why wouldn't I be?" John murmured. As soon as the words hit Sherlock, John knew he would be deduced.

"You seem sad for me. Your hands are entwined across your heart, even though you are leaning back, not perched forward. You are not sitting cross legged, like you often do when you sit back in a chair. Your voice cracked slightly, raised a bit, when you said sorry. When I sat down, you stiffened, as if you wanted to stand up. If you were to stand up, I know you would not leave, you would either go to the kitchen to make tea, or drape and arm around me. When I looked up at you, just now, you tensed up again. You can't take your eyes from mine, and you are having trouble breathing. When I said I had not felt love or friendship before you came, I knew you were thinking about it. LOVE. FRIENDSHIP. You were thinking I assumed you loved me. Which, I think, you do. You denied to yourself you loved me. Well, I'll tell you John. I do love you.


	4. Now We're Getting Somewhere

John was struck dumb. Had Sherlock just deduced him and said I love you?! He shook his head quickly, than stared at Sherlock. "YOU WHAT?!"

Before Sherlock could open his mouth to repeat the sentence, Lestrade shot through the door, a ruffled looking Mrs. Hudsen standing in their doorway. "Oh Lestrade!" Mrs. Hudson chided. "You really shouldn't burst in. Sherlock is still angry at you." Lestrade glared at her through bloodshot eyes.

"You look dreadful!" Sherlock said happily. It was clear any state of pain Lestrade was in was a bit of make up for getting rid of Sherlock.

"I haven't slept for the whole week you were gone?!" Lestrade snapped.

"Welcome to my world, Lestrade. I usually don't eat or sleep while I have an unsolved case." Sherlock replied, clearly knowing it would make Lestrade that much more angry.

"Well, good for you! We are not all exactly like you Sherlock!" Lestrade ranted. The lack of sleep had also made Lestrade a great deal crankier. "I can't do your job for you."

"You sent me away because you said you could, and much better." Sherlock reminded the small crowd not so helpfully.

"I know, but apparently I can't. I have found only one clue, from visiting the Care center at all hours they were open, and the boss was never there. Apparently, if anyone has an issue, they are to CALL him. And this person isn't certified for child care, all of that is left for the employees. All the boss wants is some easy cash." Lestrade sighed. He looked questioningly at John, knowing Sherlock would not permit him a seat or some tea after their previous conversation. John nodded and moved off to the kitchen while Lestrade sat on the couch. Sherlock looked at Mrs. Hudson pointedly.

"Why don't you come in, Mrs. Hudson? You are already here and you have not had tea with us for some time." Sherlock invited quite politely.

"Oh no, this is your business Sherlock. I am not part of your department, or what ever. I rather don't think I am qualified to attend this meeting." Mrs. Hudson refused, waving a hand in the air.

"I insist." Sherlock refused the decline. "This is no meeting. Lestrade simply wishes to apologize to me." Sherlock gave an angry glance towards Lestrade. Mrs. Hudson grinned and hobbled over the threshold and Sherlock helped her down onto the couch next to Lestrade.

"Why, thank you Sherlock. You are right, it feels it has been forever since we have had a tea together." Mrs. Hudson gratefully took the first cup of tea from John and touched it to her lips. Sherlock made a point in taking the next cup, and sat down in a chair as far away from Lestrade as possible in their tiny flat. John gave Sherlock a death glare for being so rude while he carefully handed Lestrade his cup before sitting down in the one other chair. The couch might have fit one more person, if that person also happened to be skinny and small.

"I am assuming you hit a dead end, and came to see me because you could simply not continue?" Sherlock pressed, wanting to find just one more reason to embarrass Lestrade. The latter took a large gulp of tea and swallowed before looking up again.

"Actually, not yet." Lestrade replied, a slight smug grin crossed his lips as he took another, smaller, sip of the tea. John fought back a look of surprise. Sherlock swallowed and asked another question.

"Well, what did you find?"

"The boss. His name is Jacob Mindd, he is forty-three, lives twenty-six miles down this road to the south and his phone number is 763-159-37-0934." Lestrade riddled off. Sherlock sat thinking for a moment, his long fingers brought together at their points, holding his cup against his chin.

"Do you have an exact address?" Sherlock inquired.

"No." Lestrade replied, closing his eyes as he took another sip.

"Of course." Sherlock replied impatiently. He swapped out his phone and got ready to send a text to a brand new recipient.

To: 736-159-37-0934

_ I am Sherlock Holmes.  _

_ I am coming to your home tomorrow for morning tea and a chat. _

_ My Flat-mate John Watson will also be attending.  _

_ Be ready to talk about the murder. _

_ SH _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Its not a real phone number.... I hope? I just threw some numbers together.


	5. An Interview

"And you must be John Watson." Jacob Mindd shook John's hand as he ushered Sherlock inside to sit. The house Jacob lived in was large and full of expensive things. It was clear this man had a great joy for collecting things, or at the least spending a wealth he always worked so hard to acquire. Well, not really worked.

"Are you a hunter?" John asked, eyeing stuffed heads all over the wall. Deer, bears, and even a wolverine adorned the large wall that was off to the left of the front door.

"Oh, no. Those are rare animals that I pay a prized hunter from Canada for. He is very kind to me, but yet not to my budget." Jacob replied, a grin creeping over a thing pail face, stretching his think lips to what seemed could be their limit.

"Ahh." John replied, in a tone that suggested that he really knew that. A tone of denial. Sherlock fought a smirk.

"We are here to talk about the person who you so stupidly let cook for small children and resulted in their deaths, not about how you send employee's to do everything." Sherlock sniped as Jacob, who was clearly going to talk on. Instead, he frowned.

"Wait, so all of this is my fault?" Jacob snatched back.

"Unless you give us the information we need, you could go to jail for the murder of these children." Sherlock informed him.

"How am I reasonable for the death of these children? I wasn't even there when the bodies were found, or the time when you estimated the toxin had been ingested!" Jacob protested.

"The place where the murder took place was in your establishment, and therefore ultimately your responsibility. If you do not give us the information to find and bust the real killer, you are required to take the punishment for the real killer." Sherlock snapped.

"Well why?!" Jacob raised his voice. Sherlock, for the first time in the past week, did not match.

"Because if you do not give us helpful information, you could be helping the real killer escape, and therefore can get into more trouble for letting a killer lose than actually killing the children." Sherlock replied patiently. The situation seemed to finally set in the Jacob, this WAS serious.

"Ah. Will you please, erm, come in? Sit down, please make yourself at home! Would you like any tea?" Jacob suddenly was kind and flamboyant. He had a lot to lose if he went to jail, including one of the world's largest multi-cooperation and over 140 million dollars. He was one of the richest people in the world at this point in time. It was understandable to panic a bit when faced with Murder and smuggling charge. "What would you like to know?"

"The cook at your facility." John supplied simply.

"Which one?" Jacob asked, furrowing his brow in concentration.

"Erm, it's a daycare…." John replied meekly.

"That helps me how?" Jacob replied.

"Facility 468 of line 19 in Northern England." Sherlock replied.

"Ahhh." Jacob replied. "Line 19 is run by a sub-head. Each line is. I don't know specific workers in specific facilities in any line."

"Who is the Sub-Head to that line, then?" John asked.

"I don't even know the names of all of the Sub-Heads of all 147 lines." Jacob replied helplessly.

"Are you going to help us, or give us useless information?" Sherlock quipped.

"I have a file of all of my Lines. Gives me basic information about each Head and each of the corporations. I might be able to give you a name, an approximate address, a phone number, and I could also give you the file about that person. Would that help?" Jacob rushed on, attempting to keep Sherlock's attention.

"That would bring us just that much closer." Sherlock nodded.

"Good. Now, let me just find it." Jacob stood and went to the stairs. He was halfway up when Sherlock jumped up and followed him, John coming as well.

"I'm coming." Sherlock informed a baffled Jacob Mindd. He nodded sheepishly and continued to a door that had a sign and required a key to open. Jacob pulled a small, silver key and inserted it into the lock, turned it 50 degrees to the left, and pulled the key back out with a click. Sherlock looked questioningly at Jacob.

"My files hold all of the information to each line, and transaction, everything that has to do with my financial business." Jacob replied. "If anyone stole into this room, I would lose everything that matters to me. My money and possessions." He pushed the door open and revealed a room stacked full of different file-folders, a desk who's surface one could not distinguish the color of the table top. The floor might have had wood floor, for when Jacob stepped on a lose file, he slipped and ripped several pages. He bent down and stacked them up on the desk next to a roll of clear Scotch tape. He would fix them later, after his guests had left.

"Do you have any kids, a wife?" John asked looking around the room and thinking back to Jacob saying his most important items were his money and material things.

"No, of course not. I don't have time. I am conquering the economical part of England. People have actually come out and admitted they wanted to kill me. Having kids would make things just that more difficult." Jacob replied. "Ah, here it is. The file. Have fun with it!"

Sherlock grabbed it, smiled and walked out the office door and down the stairs. John bounced after him, waving thanks to Jacob.

Outside, Sherlock hailed a taxi. "Sherlock." John inquired.

"Yes, John?" Sherlock responded as a taxi pulled up. "221 B Baker Street." Sherlock informed the driver as soon as they both had seated themselves in and closed the door. The driver nodded and pulled off onto the road.

"Jacob seemed, strange." John replied lamely.

"Yes. Most people threatened by a social outcast do act strange. He knows who I am. I did a case for his Ex-wife. A rather charming lady, actually. Plus, I am always in the paper. One look at me and anyone knows my name and yours." Sherlock half-deduced, half-explained.

"You're not a social outcast, Sherlock." John snipped.

"Yes, I am. Name one person who actually cares about me." Sherlock refused.

"I do."


	6. Narrowing It Down

"Oh John…." Sherlock replied quietly. Just then, the cab wrenched over and the cabbie glared at them.

"OUT!" The cabbie screeched. "I DON'T AGREE WITH GAY MARRIAGE. YOU WILL NOT CONDUCT YOUR PERSONAL AFFAIRS IN THE BACK OF MY CAB WHILE I AM AT THE WHEEL. COME BACK WHEN YOU FIND A GIRL!" John and Sherlock jumped out of the cab and it sped off before Sherlock even had a chance to close the door. Then, Sherlock stole a glance at John.

"Please tell me you still have that file I handed you?" Sherlock was panicked, even though he kept this a secret under his cool demeanor, which John could see right through.

"Yes, of course." John replied, hoping that he had had a firm grasp on the file when the cab pulled to an abrupt stop. He reached in his coat and let out a tremendous sigh of relief as he pulled the file out from the inside of the coat he wore. The file was bent and torn, but that wasn't as big a problem as loosing it would have been. Sherlock snatched the file and began to walk toward the shared flat quickly, while by-standers stared at them in disbelief.

"Wait, Sherlock!" John yelped as he realized the tall and dark man had begun to walk away. "I'm NOT gay!"

"I know John. You're not gay." Sherlock replied, almost sadly.

"Wait, are you?" John asked, panting and running to keep up with Sherlock's long-legged strides on his much smaller ones.

"No, I'm not." Sherlock hissed. By-standers continued to stop walking and just stand there and stare at the detective and doctor as they stalked through the streets. Mothers scooped up children, or hurried them along.

"It's rude to stare" "They're obviously having relationship problems" "Don't point, that's mean" "Come along now." "A public display of this is incorrect for our children and "Go home with it" streamed along after them. Anybody knew Sherlock Holmes, only Consulting Detective in the world and Doctor John Watson, an Army Doctor and Sherlock's loyal follower. No one knew about their real relationship, or what could become real. All anyone ever saw, beside John, was the deducing and intelligent yet socially-outcast man that walked onto crime scenes and found the killers. That would change some day, John knew.

They arrived at their flat door, Sherlock deep in thoughts about something or other, and John truly and purely embarrassed, his face could not possibly get any redder. If it did, the two-some might have needed to go to the hospital. Mrs. Hudson opened the door at Sherlock's first knock and ushered them inside, not oblivious to all of the whispers and the stares from the street.

"They're all really just terrible." Mrs. Hudson fussed as John took of his coat and hung it on the hanger by the door. Sherlock only even hung his coat and scarf on the back of the door to his flat, if he took them off. "Would you boys like to come to my flat for some tea?"

"I won't" Sherlock replied, waving the crumpled and torn file in the air. "I have a large amount of work to do. But John probably can't help, so he is more than welcome to."

"Yeah, I'll come for a bit." John grinned looking at Sherlock, who shifted from foot to foot clearly eager to start. "Thanks. I'll bring you back something, Sherlock." With that, John disappeared behind Mrs. Hudson's door to sit on one of her comfy chairs.

"You don't need to do that. Thanks Mrs. Hudson." Sherlock bid a small farewell to his friends and dashed up the stairs.

"Oh, Sherlock. When you get to be MY age, you will regret all the energy you spent now." Mrs. Hudson shook her head ruefully. "And you're very welcome. John seems to enjoy my company…." Mrs. Hudson moved slowly into her kitchen to make the now different two-some some tea and set out a tin of home made butter-scones.

Up in his own flat, Sherlock opened the file and started scanning the first page. This page had basic information, such as the line of business, how it worked, what its franchise was, the overall money spent on this line each month then calculated to each year, amount of income, amount of supplies and amount of workers.

The second page went over the income part of this line, such as major transactions, money transfers involving this line, and how much each building in this line was worth.

The third page had information on workers as a whole. Each building had a rating, 1 to 5, on how much money they could bring in, the overall pay-check of workers, and who was in charge of money transactions for each building.

The fourth page through the 467th page had information about each of those facilities, page number the number of the facility.

The 478th page had what Sherlock needed, but he continued to flip through the file to see what else was in there, intent on coming back to that page.

Pages 479 through a total of 500 all held the information of the last facilities. There were 500 day-care's total in this franchise.

The last pages had workers to note. Any time somebody hired a person with questionable intentions because of their history, the hirer would have to call Jacob up and he would find the correct file and scribble the name down. There were 20 total pages of this, front and back. Each side of the paper held about 50 names in their own. A couple dozen had been crossed off. These were workers that probably had quit, been fired, or been taken back to jail. The rest of the names were visible, but not readable. Jacob had pathetic penmanship, and Sherlock had to struggle to read every word in this file.

Sherlock pulled out the list of questionable workers and flipped back to page 478. He pulled this page out also and set the now tattered file off to the side. Spreading the list out, Sherlock began to read and search for the information he needed.

Facility 478  
Little-Tykes Child Care Center  
Manager: Clarice Johnson, age 43  
Number of Questionable Hires: 5  
Number of these hires still working at this facility: 3  
Total number of workers: 25  
Hours: 5:00 am to 11:30 pm (local time, subject to change around holidays. See location for holiday times)  
Amount of money spent on food per month: Estimate $12,575 a month  
Amount of money spent on upkeep per month: Estimate $397,894 a month   
Medical Emergency's in Past: 16  
Change of management in past: 2  
Questionable workers: Tess Nermon, Joshua Threl, Amanda Skyn, Alyn Walker, and Aiden Qustake

Tess Nermon: Female, age 23, cook, served four months in a detention center for being caught vandalizing a hospital.

Joshua Threl: Male, age 47, janitor, put on probation for attempting to steal a car.

Amanda Skyn: Female, Age 19, caretaker, served two months in jail for drunk driving

Alyn Walker: Female, age 27, cook, served two years in jail for attempted murder of grandfather

Aiden Qustake: Male, age 46, cook, freed of charges of repeated acts of violent

Sherlock skimmed the personal information again, double checking to make sure he didn't miss anything. He would have to learn more about Tess, Alyn, and Aiden. Aiden is the only male cook, and they probably worked erratic hours. There were no phone numbers, no addresses, for any of the suspects, but there was one to Clarice Johnson, the manger. There was no doubt in his mind that Clarice would have the phone numbers.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note that I honestly have no memory of how I came up with these names? Possibly a random generator of some sort, but to the best of my knowledge they are not (intentionally) real names.


	7. A Death in the Flat

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like it might be important to note (in case anyone didn't know) that I am American, I am VERY American, and I have never been to England. But as a pre-teen/early teen, I watched a TON of British TV (and related media)...

John entered the flat, a tin with candy canes all over the sides and a very plump Santa on the lid.

"Find anything?" John asked.

"Tess Nermon. Alyn Walker. Aiden Qustake." Sherlock replied

"Sounds like we are going to be busy tomorrow. You know what that means." John chided Sherlock.

"Some sort of dinner and at least four hours of sleep." Sherlock replied in a drawling voice. John winked.

"Bingo."

"I don't understand why when I am correct, people say bingo." Sherlock replied thoughtfully.

"They're telling you that you got the answer right on the nose." John explained. He had to explain a lot of sayings to Sherlock. His tall flat mate nodded as he swiped open the tin's lid and pulled out a crescent, taking a hesitant bite.

"It's a crescent made my Mrs. Hudson, not a bomb Sherlock." John sighed. Sherlock ate all of his food slowly and carefully, unless he was absolutely hungry. At that point, he ate like a force of nature, inhaling all nutrients in the immediate area.

"I know John." Sherlock huffed. "I'm not just really all that hungry."

"Of course you're not." John fought the urge to connect his palm to is forehead and set the elbow on his knee.

"I'm really not John. I'm not even tired either." Sherlock mused, probably looking for some excuse not to continue either task.

"Finnish four crescents, then take a long, warm shower, then change into your jam jam's and go to bed." John mocked gently.

"Never call my pajama's jam jam's again." Sherlock threatened. John grinned and snatched a piece of bread as he plopped down into his chair.

"Don't worry, I won't." John replied. Suddenly there was a frantic knocking at the door. Sherlock and John exchanged strange looks before the detective stood, still clad in his coat and scarf for an unknown reason. He walked down the stairs slowly, and muffled screaming was added to the pounding.

"PLEASE HURRY!" A male voice screamed from the other side of the door. A gun shot and a ping broke through the door. Somebody was shooting at the man. Sherlock jumped the last four steps and threw open the front door. Just as a face was revealed, another gun shot went off and the mans eyes got big. Scarlet blood began to quickly color his white shirt.

"JOHN!" Sherlock yelped as the man fell forward into his arms. A third gun shot went off, and Sherlock dove to the ground, the dying man beneath him. A fourth gun shot run and hit the floor at John's feet. The army doctor responded accordingly and jumped down the last seven stairs and flew the side. Sherlock shoved the near death man next to John. Now that his arms were free, though blood covered, he crawled a few feet across the floor and slammed the door shut.

"We need to get him upstairs, on the couch." John breathed. The gun shots hit the pavement out side. Every four seconds, another bullet his somewhere. It wouldn't be long before one could come straight through the door.

"What's going on, boys?" Mrs. Hudson shrieked at the dying man, then a bullet imbedded its self in the door. The landlady's face was pale, and she seemed waving on her feet. Another bullet hit the door.

"Come on, Mrs. Hudson. Our flat is safer!" Sherlock touched her arm reassuringly before rushing over to help John drag the bleeding man up the stairs. Mrs. Hudson trailed, refusing John's and Sherlock's orders to go first.

"Ohhhh" Mrs. Hudsen moaned as Sherlock slammed the door behind the three and the new patient.

John lowered the man onto the couch and rushed to the bathroom to fetch the first aid kit. He came back out and threw the kit onto a kitchen chair, pulling it close and popping the lid open. He removed several kilometers of medical wrap that stuck to itself (thank god for it) and a bottle of aspirin.

"Sherlock." John handed the worried looking detective the bottle and he pried it open, setting three pills onto the chair. "Mrs. Hudson, please." John added. The old lady understood and rushed to the kitchen. She fumbled with the tab and a glass, filling it half way. She set a dripping cup next to the pills on the chair as John fought to tear the man's shirt. He only succeeded after thirty seconds of trying. There was a rather large hole near the man's stomach.

"The bullet didn't touch his stomach, he is still able to digest, intake things. Sherlock cut the liquid-capsules in half and put each ends of the pills into the water glass. Wait until it turns a light blue." John ordered. Sherlock grabbed the pair of medical scissors and positioned the first pill between the blades, held this over the cup and applied pressure. The scissors jerked and the pill spilled into the cup. While Sherlock worked to cut the remaining pills in the same fashion, John shoved gauze onto the wound and crossed his fingers. He put both hands over a wad of the cloth on the bullet wound and applied a small amount of pressure. The man cried out in pain.

"Mrs. Watson, get him a blanket from somewhere, in me or Sherlock's bedroom. A think one. He needs to stay warm. We don't want him going into shock." John grunted as he franticly changed the cloth and piled the bloody ones on the floor next to the chair. "Sherlock, there should be a force-feed syringe in the kit as well. Pour some of the water into the syringe and try to give it to him." Sherlock nodded and pulled out the syringe. He pulled the cap off and put the tip of the tool into the water. Sherlock forced the water to flood quickly. He bent over the patient.

"Hold still. Please, try to open your mouth." Sherlock instructed. The man's jaw waved open, and seconds before the man closed it again, Sherlock pressed the end of the syringe, and the water splashed into his mouth. The middle aged man chocked and coughed, but Sherlock held his jaw closed until he managed to swallow. The kneeling man continued to force-feed the pain killer to the man while John continued to force pressure on the wound. More and more cloths became filled with blood.

"Massive internal bleeding." John reported. "The blood would have died down a bit if the bullet had not hit anything." Mrs. Hudson draped the heaviest blanket she could find up to the man's wound, which was a couple of centimeters above his stomach.

"Wet cloth. Not cold water, not hot." John frisked Mrs. Hudson again. She plucked up the smallest rag and went to the kitchen sink as fast as she could without running or causing her old joints any discomfort. The tap turned on, then off, and Mrs. Hudson came bustling back. She positioned the nearly strangled rag on the guy's forehead, not covering his eyes, ears, nose or mouth. He began to gasp for breath desperately.

"It's not working!" Sherlock stated quite frantically.

"I KNOW SHERLOCK!" John snapped. He was about to loose a patient, one that had been shot at his door step and would bleed out on his own (well, Sherlock's) couch.

"Sherrrrlockkk" The man wheezed. The requested looked over the patient.

"Yes?" Sherlock asked and a shaking and unsteady hand flew up and grabbed his coat front.

"I….am…" A deep inhale "Not….bad…man…..I" a rattling breath, and a tear leaked out of the corner of his eye. "I…not…kill…. I….. am…." One more word, Sherlock knew. A name. "Aiden….." The man did not breath again. His hand fell from Sherlock's coat, but remained curled as it hit the floor over the side of his death bed. Aiden's eyes became distant, and John stopped applying pressure. Sherlock ran his hand over the newly created corpse and the eyes slowly flicked closed. The bullets stopped flying, like whoever had tried to kill this man knew he succeeded. Everyone sat there in a stunned silence, minds devoid of all thought, except for Sherlock. He was thinking about the words the man had tried so hard to get out.

"I am not a bad man. I so not kill. I am….. Aiden."


	8. The Flat Across The Street

"Who was this man?" Lestrade asked Sherlock.

"Aiden Qustake. He is, was the correct terminology now, a cook at the daycare where the children were murdered." Sherlock informed Lestrade with a fair hint of annoyance.

"What was he doing here?" Lestrade continued.

"He was coming to tell us some rather valuable information about the murder. Someone knew about this and decided to take action. That someone is the killer, attempting not to be found. You said you recovered the bullets that had been shot at us?" Sherlock inquired.

"Oh yes. Here." Lestrade fumbled with his coat pocket for a moment before withdrawing a plastic bag. A couple dozen small metal pellets jingled around inside as Lestrade moved them and gave the bag to Sherlock, who held it up.

"Small rounds. Can be fitted for several different guns. The ones you found outside have small nicks in them, which suggests they are cheap and fractured on contact with the cement outside." Sherlock deduced. "The person who fired these was not a good shot, and therefore not experienced in handling and shooting a gun. Clumsy on the trigger, and had shaking hands upon firing."

"Can you tell where the person was firing from?" Lestrade asked, already knowing the answer.

"Of course I can. They were positioned directly across the street, on the second floor." Sherlock replied, giving Lestrade an ridicules look of "Duh".

"So, the killer lives there." Lestrade concluded.

"Perhaps." John butted in. "If there was someone trying to cover their tracks of murder, they would have had plenty of opportunity to shoot or kill Sherlock and I. They didn't, which might suggest it could have been a family member or friend."

"Very good, John. That is a correct deduction." Sherlock praised. "We will go to the flats across the way." With that, Sherlock bustled down the stairs and opened the front door.

Knocking on the door, John shifted from foot to foot in the early morning coolness. His breath was frosty on the air, and every intake sent a sharp jolt of freezing mild pain through his lungs. While John had his hands shoved as far down as they would go into his pockets and shoulders hunched until they met just behind his chin, Sherlock stood as straight and normal as ever, seemingly bothered by the cold.

Just as John was sure he was going to get frost bite on his nose, the muffled scraping sounds emanated from behind the door. The faded coal black door with the rusted, once silver-ish numbers of 225 swung open. The door was so different from theirs, John was startled. The door that belonged to 221 was bright and shiny, giving an air of being freshly painted, and the numbers always felt well cared for, as they rarely got muddy or dusty. Mrs. Hudson always kept the flat in the best conditions possible, with the exception of Sherlock's, whose she could not keep clean for more reasons then one.

The man behind the door looked ruff. He had a four-O'clock shadow, dark bags under his clearly once bright eyes, a beer belly, thick-knuckled thumbs, stains that looked suspiciously like throw-up dotted across his crusty gray tank top and wore slippers with patches of fluff missing from the top. Mr. un-happy looked to be about 43, roughly and in terrible condition for his age. "What do you want?" A gravelly voice that had an air of not being used for a couple of days spoke up.

We wish to visit the man who lives in your second story flat." John asked politely. The man grumbled and scratched his chin.

"It's a little early to come see anybody, isn't it?" The man asked.

"Who are you?" Sherlock piped up from behind John.

"Oracatoe. That's MISTER Oracatoe to you." Oracatoe sniped. "I've never seen you come around here before. No one here ever really has a life, never makes new friends, so when someone comes by, they always want something."

"There was a murder at my flat last night." Sherlock tried, before getting cut off.

"Sounds like someone at your place did it to me. No one here is a suspect." Oracatoe moved to close the door, but Sherlock intervened. He stuck his toe in the door.

"Yes there was, and you know it. You heard the bullet shots last night, and woke from a sleep with a start, hitting your head on your bedside table. You went and peeked out your window, and you saw the man at our door get shot down. You then heard loud and quick footsteps down the stair case, but you let them go because you did not want to face somebody that had killed a man just a minute before. This is the same person you let in to visit the same flat-owner on the second floor that we're looking for. This person threatened you, and shoved you away from the door when you said that you were suspicious of them, like us. You then heard something, I don't know what, that burgled you even more and led you going to your room to lay down and eventually fall asleep a few moments before the gunshots." Sherlock deduced.

"Alright, just don't make much noise. I don't want to here that mans child start to cry again." Oracatoe grumbled.

"We would appreciate it if you could tell us who lived in the flat, first?" John tried, attempting to ride on the fear of Sherlock's deduction with kindness and trust.

"Billy Mien and his 2 year old son, Charls." Oracatoe replied, He slammed the door behind the detective and the doctor as they walked into the flat and began to walk up the stairs to the flat.

Sherlock pushed the door open and stopped at the door way. John forced his way in and gasped. Blood was everywhere, and two bodies lay on the floor. One clearly a father, and one a son.


	9. We Are Closer

"What the hell happened?" John gasped, clutching Sherlock's arm for sudden support.

"Murder." Sherlock replied simply. He let John hold on to his arm as he pulled out his phone and sent a text to Lestrade.

To: Greg Lestrade  
There has been another murder.  
Come.  
Address i s 225 c Baker Street.  
SH

"Text sent." Sherlock reported.

On my way

"He's coming." Sherlock concluded.

"What happened?" Lestrade asked as soon as he walked onto the crime scene. John had come out of his trance and was standing over the body of the young child. Sherlock was staring into space, and finally snapped back into reality for the first time since Lestrade had replied to his text.

"Murder, Lestrade. I thought I made that clear in the text." Sherlock replied.

"Yes, well, I meant have you deduced the scene yet?" Lestrade clarified, "What happened, what did you find?"

"Not yet." Was all John could manage before Sherlock launched into a complete explanation of the crime scene.

"Two bullet wounds, one shot for each victim. The killer caught these people by surprise. The door was locked, but it is scratched up. Whoever shot these people picked the lock, breaking and entering, another crime to add to their charges. The child was shot first. Prior to being shot, the little boy, age of two, was sitting quite contently in front of the telly, which had been switched off by the killer after both murders had been committed. The man had been in the kitchen, cooking tea on the stove. He was cooking the tea to give to his son because he was having trouble sleeping that night. His wife had died in a car crash four years earlier, but he misses her. He still wears his wedding ring in an attempt to remember her. He keeps in clean and in good condition, a sign they were happily married, 4 plus years. This was their first son, who has no memory of his mother." Sherlock informed the small crowd of three, including himself.

"Yes, thank you for that back ground story. Just get on with it" Lestrade chided impatiently.

"I was going there next." Sherlock defended himself. "The killer was right handed. The bullet wounds are on the left sides of their bodies, and toward their stomachs. The bullets are both lodged in on their sides; the killer had little to no experience with a gun and was shaking as they fired a shot. The same person killed these two that killed Aiden. They knew the precise time Aiden was coming to our doorstep, and was running in a bit late. He got angry; he was unable to open the window. At this, he shot the lock and put up the window."

"Female or male?" Lestrade asked.

"Female." Was all Sherlock replied. He waves his hand and John bounced back over to his side and they descended down the stairs together. Oracatoe was looking rather grumpy at the front door. Two police cars sat on the street, along with an ambulance. At the sight of the detective and his blogger, the nurses in the ambulance got into action.

"Two." John said as the workers approached them. The first nurse, a tall man with red hair and a face full or freckles held up two fingers as twin sisters with long blond hair tied back into a tail and bright red lips. Sherlock looked both ways and crossed the road, John attempting, and rather failing, to keep his stride. Three knocks on the door prompted and answer from Mrs. Hudson.

"Any news boys?" The landlady asked, simply as a formality.

"Child and single father, mother dead. Both killed. Female." Was all Sherlock mumbled before he raced up the stairs. John stayed behind to remove his coat.

"Two more murders by our former killer. This time a father and a young son." John translated. Mrs. Hudson nodded, then said to John's receding back.

"That's terrible." All John did was nod and plot the rest of the way into the shared flat. He found Sherlock sitting on the floor in front of the couch with a pen in his hand. Five names were highlighted, and of those, two had a heavy dark line running through them. Sherlock was in the process of marking off Aiden's name from the list when John sat on the couch. The army doctor leaned in close to Sherlock's ear, his insides turning at the prospect of being so close to his flat mate.

"Three down, two to go." John said what Sherlock would not aloud.

"Yes." Sherlock replied as he wildly scribbled out the name of the deceased suspect. John didn't notice it until after it happened, but Sherlock moved closer about two inches. His back now rested on John's legs, which were not spread but closed together. Like a backrest. John startled and jumped in the air when he realized his lips had been pushed to Sherlock's cheek when the detective moved.

"I… uh… I'm sorry." John replied lamely and stood up, moving to the kitchen. When he set the kettle on the stove to boil, he looked out at Sherlock who had closed the file up again and shoved it under the couch. Strange tendencies like this, John realized, were part of what made Sherlock the Only One In the World. Especially to John.


	10. Murder

Sherlock was gone the next morning when John woke up. He stumbled down the stairs from his bedroom to find the flat all tidied up. Mrs. Hudson was bustling around the flat, a cup of tea on the table in front of John's spot.

"I thought we weren't our maid?" John teased gently.

"I'm not." Mrs. Hudson replied. "Sherlock's gone." A stone dropped in John stomach. The way the landlady had stated the fact made John worry beyond all other worry.

"What do you mean?" John asked, fear prickling in his stomach.

"He's in jail, John. He got a lead late last night, and came up to my door at about 11:30. He said he was going out and that if he wasn't back by morning to take care of you."

"What do you mean, take care of me?" John fumbled to keep his voice from trembling. It sounded like….

"He's not coming back John." Mrs. Hudson confirmed the worse fear of the army doctor.

"How did you know?" John asked. He wanted to know something about the current situation. Even if it was something as useless as who had been told.

"Mycroft contacted me. He said he had told no one else, and to tell no one except you." Mrs. Hudson replied sounding sad for John.

"I need to talk to Mycroft." John stated. He pulled his phone from the table-top and bounded down the stairs. He didn't care to change from his pajamas, he needed to take a walk and call Mycroft.

John walked down the street as he dialed the other Holmes brother's phone number. He held the speaker to his ear and listened to the dull tones of the other line ringing. Would Mycroft even answer a call? He had to right? He had to expect that John would be ringing him up as soon as he found out. Finally, the tones ended and a voice answered.

"Hello?" Mycroft asked.

"What the hell, Mycroft!" John nearly roared. Understanding who was calling him at 6:00 in the morning, Mycroft become more somber.

"What do you mean?" Mycroft said wearily.

"You know what I mean! What happened to Sherlock? Where is he?" John panicked. He picked up his speed to a quick walk, forcing his heart to beat faster and his breaths to come shorter.

"He is in jail, John. He killed a man."

The air escaped from his lungs and his run stopped dead. The doctor's head swam and his vision became blurry.

"No." Was all John could muster.

"Yes. He killed a middle age man at around 12:00 last night. He just stood and stared at his wife as the woman dialed the police." Mycroft replied.

"This has to be a mistake, Mycroft. He wouldn't kill anyone, not on purpose." John fumbled for some way to defend the man who mattered most to him.

"The evidence was all there, John. The blood was on his hands. He had a maniacal rage on his face. There was a steak plate on the table in front of the couch. Blood was on the floor. A knife and fork were placed parallel in the man's chest. We didn't need Sherlock to deduce this crime scene." Mycroft laid out all the facts.

"I have to see him." Was the first words that came out of the bloggers mouth, even though he fought to hold them back. Deep down he knew seeing his best friend was selfish, when he should have been telling Molly and a few others about Sherlock's imprisonment.

"Not now, John. He is being held in a high-security center. You won't be able to see him until his trial next week." Mycroft replied as gently as he could. John was an explosive, and Sherlock had been keeping the timer stuck at the 10 second mark on his timer. If something really happened to him, Mycroft knew, John would go insane.

"I need to see him." John repeated, the cold air pressing in and constructing his lungs. The freezing morning held John in its unforgiving embrace.

"You can't. Not for at least a week."


	11. Visiting Time

All week John waited as patently as he could, which was not very. Ever morning he woke up and stumbled down the stairs into the flat to find Mrs. Hudson helping out in one way or another. He always asked the same thing, which was "What day is it?" Always hoping in the back of his mind that it had already been a week, and that it was Friday. That he could go see Sherlock.

The day finally came, and that day Mrs. Hudson would not go.

"You need to come!" John argued. Mrs. Hudson shook he head.

"Oh, no." She denied. "I can't"

"Why not?!" John was near teas for the hundredth time that week. Without Sherlock, everything seemed dull and stupid and nothing.

"I just can't John. I have things to do." Mrs. Hudson brushed the rage off lightly.

"NO!" John refused to be chided. "Mrs. Hudson, please. Sherlock would love to see you. More than me."

"No means no John. Sherlock needs to see you; I would only get in the way." Mrs. Hudson shook her head sadly and took John by the arm.

"No, you wouldn't." John tried one more time as Mrs. Hudson cracked open the front door and pushed him through. He shoved his foot in the space between the door and the frame.

"You are going to see Sherlock. I am not coming." Mrs. Hudson concluded the argument and, speechless, John pulled his foot from the space and allowed the elderly landlady to close the door. The army doctor zipped his coat up and walked to the edge of the curb. After his hand had hailed the cab to pull up close to him, he shoved both his hands as deep into the pockets of his jeans as he could.

"Where are you going, mate?" The driver asked John as he closed the door and sealed himself inside the cab.

"Scotland Yard" John snipped lightly.

"Meeting Sherlock there?" The cabbie inquired, looking for conversation.

"He's been there. For the last week." John replied bitterly.

"Oh, that's terrible. What'd he do?" The cabbie asked.

"What do you think?" John nearly yelled.

"Woah, sorry Doctor Watson." The cabbie apologized as they pulled up the drive of Scotland Yard. John shoved the door open and handed the cabbie money.

'It's alright." He accepted the apology and slammed the door.

"Well then." The cabbie murmured as he put the black cab in drive and pulled away from the hobbling doctor.

"Sherlock!" John nearly yelped as he saw his rough and tumble looking flat mate behind bars.

"John!" Sherlock replied. His face brightened, but did nothing for his terrible appearance. It was clear he had not shaven all week, as the stubble on his chin and jaw line was like a small forest where an even smaller beast might hide out. His curls had become rather flat and pressed to his neck and forehead. His tie and coat and scarf were strewn on the floor and the first buttons on his shirt were down. His sleeves were hanging down, not buttoned up neat. His white shirt had gray stains and was half tucked in half pulled out. Stress was making him giddy and restless.

"What the hell did you do, Sherlock!" John roared.

"I didn't mean to. It was an accident!" Sherlock yelled back.

"I missed you! You know how hard this week was? Extremely!" John fought with his tone of voice to keep it at least somewhat calm.

"I know. I'm sorry." Sherlock whispered. He reached for John through the bars and wrapped him into an awkward and painful hug. John looked into Sherlock's eyes and became swept away. He leaned forward just a bit, his lips nearly meeting the detectives.

"Visiting time is over." The guard grumbled and pulled John out of his flat-mates embrace.

"John" Sherlock whispered and leaned against the bars. His hand reached out and searched for Johns. "Don't go."


	12. Why Do You Hurt Me

The look in Sherlock's eyes startled John. As he was pulled from the embrace, John felt something. A loss. Something about being so close to Sherlock enchanted the army doctor. Even through the bars of a jail cell, the hug had made him feel alive.

That night, John had a nightmare.

Sherlock was running down the street, John racing after him. They had a lead. The arrived at the flat and Sherlock reached out with his foot. The door intercepted it, and was pushed off of it's hinges.

"Sherlock, what are you doing?" John asked. Sherlock didn't hear him, or otherwise ignored him. The tall and dark detective stepped in the house and went to the landowners' room. He startled John again by breaking down this door as well.

There was an old lady in the kitchen. Not Mrs. Hudson, thank god, but a different one. Had John seen her somewhere? The thought was banished as, in a few long steps, Sherlock was in front of the woman. His hands were adorned with their usual leather gloves, and they reached out to the elderly woman. His hands reached up and slipped around the frail and thin neck. With a simple twitch to the side, the neck snapped.

Blood spilled from the neck, which had the bones sticking out. John stared horrified as Sherlock pulled the limp body by the neck, which was gushing blood, up the stairs. John tried to cry out to Sherlock, to try to get him to stop, but all the air was gone from his lungs. At the next door, Sherlock twisted the unlocked door knob, and pushed the door open. A man sat on the couch.

Before John could blink, Sherlock had his now bloody hands wrapped on the mans neck. This guy had a thicker neck, and was stronger. Sherlock had a sneer locked onto his wonderful lips and his stunning eyes were narrowed. He shook the man so hard, his neck snapped completely in half. He swiped the body aside and stood.

A woman, the wife John suspected, stood in the doorway of the kitchen. She had a home phone in her hand in a flash and dialed the first number of the police, but not could not finish before Sherlock and yanked her away.

"Stop it." John wheezed. "Please Sherlock."

Sherlock continued the throttle the woman. A loud snap sounded as her neck snapped. He limp body fell to the ground as Sherlock let her go. The detective turned on John. Before John could do anything, hands wrapped around his neck.

Lights began to flash before John's eyes as air and blood began to stream slowly from his body.

"I'm sorry John.' Sherlock whispered. Tears streamed down his face.

John nodded as much as he could. "It's alright Sherlock."

"I love you." Sherlock whispered. The detective bent down and lips touched. John jumped slightly, then leaned into the kiss. His air would be gone anyway.

"I love you so much."

"I know."


	13. A Third Death

John awoke with a start, covered in sweat. His screams bounced back to his ears and he clamped his mouth shut. He pushed his face into his hands and took deep breaths, attempting to calm himself. A few minutes later, he rubbed his eyes and scruffed his nose, sniffling. He looked at the clock on his bedside table. In bright-green numbers, it read 11:30.

Standing, John stretched and looked out into the street. Thankfully, the weather matched his mood. The rain came down onto the streets of London like tears. A young woman hustled down the wind slicked streets, her coat scrunched in her fist as she attempted to stay at least somewhat dry.

John made no attempt to stay quite as he took the stairs back down to the flat, pulling on his jumper. His feet danced on Mrs. Hudson's ceiling, prompting her to get up and see what was going on. The two met up on the base of the stairs.

"What are you doing, John?" Mrs. Hudson asked as the army doctor pulled on his jacket and buttoned it up.

"Going for a walk." John replied, and sat down on the step to tie his shoes.

"At this hour? And just look at that weather! It's pouring John!" Mrs. Hudson objected.

"I noticed, Mrs. Hudson." John stood up and twisted the door handle, pulling the entrance to 221 B Baker Street open.

"John?" Mrs. Hudson asked.

"I'm fine." Answered John, wiping tears from his eyes before they could fall. Before Mrs. Hudson could reply, John stepped outside and slammed the door shut.

The rain soaked John Watson before he could think of what to do. Then he came up with an idea. Go see Sherlock. He needed some sort of consolation that Sherlock wasn't a killer, that he would never strangle him. No matter how late it was.

Seven blocks down the street, cross, sixteen more blocks, turn left, four blocks, cross the street again. John mulled over the route he would take. He needed to walk, to burn steam and to just mull everything over in his head. Sherlock was all the doctor could think about as he walked the seven blocks. Cross the street. Rain was coming down so hard, it was almost sleet. John nearly fell flat three times during his walk to the crossing point.

The light changed, and signaled for the cars to stop crossing, and for the blogger to get that much closer to his destination. A two level bus was nearing the place where it was required to stop, but the ground was icing over. The cold and rain was creating a frozen lake on the street and sidewalks.

The bus driver was tired; running lines where nobody ever got on all night will do that to you. He noticed the red light, and the pedestrian starting to cross the road. He floored the brake, but the ice plus the buses momentum kept the vehicle going forward.

It was dark out, and John's eyes were blurry with tears and rain. He didn't see the bus, with it's failing brakes, rushing towards him. He heard the horn, then he felt it.

The bus driver layed on his horn. Hear it, please just hear it. I can't stop, but you can move. The bus driver put all of his will into making the man move. He didn't the man's face was familiar, Doctor John Watson, the blogger for that Sherlock Holmes. His face peered up, his eyes wide and tear-stained. His Sherlock was gone, the man he had believed in. He had every right to be depressed. The bus driver moved his steering wheel as fast as he could, but it did nothing

.

The edge of the bus hit John, taking the air from his lungs. The bug swirled as the driver tried ever more franticly to not hurt the doctor. The other end of the bus smacked into John, and he went flying. The bus was stopped by a vacated store-lot, and Doctor John was laying on the pavement a few meters away, blood pouring from wounds in his head. Both his legs were bent at an odd angle, and one arm hung loosely at his side.

The bus driver fought his way out of the crashed bus, and ran over to the bleeding form of the doctor. He pulled out his phone and dialed the cops. Moments later, a police car and an ambulance arrived. They put the dying form of John on a gurney and wheeled him into the ambulance. With bright lights and a roaring siren, the medical vehicle sped up to the hospital.

The worker in the back sat down, the energy drained out of him. When they arrived, the other medics pulled John out, and while two of them pushed him to a room, the second two stayed behind.

"Why weren't you doing everything you could do to save him?" The first medic asked.

"Because he was already dead."


	14. Arriving at Hospital

"Sherlock." Lestrade paced up to the cell Sherlock sat in. His head was in his hands, and he seemed to be shivering, just that little bit. The detective looked up at Lestrade.

"What?" Sherlock snapped. Nothing to do, the brilliant detective had become painfully bored, and snappy as a result.

"Something happened, with John." Lestrade began, not sure how to break it to Sherlock. He stood up and paced to meet Lestrade at the bars of his cage.

"What?" Sherlock inquired again, this time more gentle.

"He was hit by a bus. He was thought dead, but he was just in a coma. Extensive wounds to his head an legs, he might not be able to walk again, that is if he can even wake up." Lestrade murmured.

"What do you mean, if he ever wakes up?" Sherlock asked, nearly frantic.

"The wounds to his brain were extremely extensive." Lestrade repeated gently. He then bent forward and unlocked the jail cell. The door swung open, and Sherlock collapsed. Lestrade dove and caught Sherlock before he hit the ground, and supported the man on his shoulder.

"I'm free to go?" Sherlock wondered, his eyes flickering.

"When was the last time you slept?" Lestrade replied, grunting over the heavyweight.

"The night before I killed the man." Sherlock answered obediently.

"SHERLOCK" Lestrade gasped. He pulled Sherlock out to the curb and hailed a cab. When the black London commutation vehicle pulled up, Lestrade eased the detective into the seat, then pulled himself in.

"The hospital, please." Lestrade directed the cab driver.

When the cab pulled up to the hospital, Lestrade pulled the detective up to the door, then to the front desk.

"Sherlock Holmes, Greg Lestrade." Lestrade told the receptionist. She nodded and used a sharpie to scribble their names on a tag.

"Sign in." The desk-lady ordered of Lestrade.

"Of course, sorry." Lestrade apologized. He balanced Sherlock on one shoulder, while using his other to sign the date, time in, and guest names on the two lines. As he set the pen down, the receptionist slapped the name-tags on the desk in front of the duo. Lestrade took the tags and pulled Sherlock over to the waiting room.

"I want to see him." Sherlock demanded.

"I know…" Lestrade replied, slapping the correct name tag on the front of the detectives shirt, then placed his on gently on his dress-shirt pocket. "You can in just a little bit. Now stay here for a second." Lestrade stood and walked back to the front desk, this time to a different lady. A nice, blond young lady sat at the place next to the plump old lady.

"Hi." The girl smiled at Lestrade. "Can I help you?"

"Yeah, I have Sherlock Holmes, requesting to see John Watson." Lestrade replied.

"Of course. Here, put both your names next to Mr. Watson's name on this sheet," The young lady handed Lestrade a new clip-board, and he added the two men's' names in the empty space next to Johns name. "And please give the date. The time is 11:30 pm, please include this as well. Before you leave, I'll need the date and time of your departure."

"Thanks." Lestrade sighed.

"No problem. I will alert you when you can go back. The patients room number is 6-12. The elevator is down that hall to the left. The visitor table is over there in the corner. If you need anything that is not on that table, please come see me." The teenage looking girl said pleasantly.

"Thanks" Lestrade replied, and walked back over to the chair that housed a starving and exhausted Sherlock Holmes.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For some reason, I just stopped naming chapters here?

"Here you go. Eat this." Lestrade demanded as he handed Sherlock a bagel with cream-cheese and a cup of warm tea. Sherlock took the bagel and ate it, then rapped his long, thin fingers around the cup, trying to warm him self up.

"I wish to see John now." Sherlock demanded after a single sip of tea.

"You can't, not yet anyway." Lestrade replied.

"Why not?" Sherlock asked.

"I don't know, Sherlock. We'll be told when we can go up to see him." Lestrade assured the detective. The waiting room was empty, its pale white walls and linoleum floor more evident and clear then when there was a jumble of people around. One of the florescent lights above flickered, driving not only Sherlock, but Lestrade as well, insane.

"They should fix that." Sherlock complained, glaring up at the light bulb as if a dirty look could change anything. The mean desk lady snorted.

"I wouldn't be so cocky. You live in a second hand apartment, and the only reason you haven't quite this job yet is because if you do, you'll be forced to live on the streets." Sherlock snapped.

"Freak." The desk-lady grumbled, but this didn't seem to faze the detective. Lestrade, however, glared at the old lady.

A nice-looking nurse stepped forward to the due gently, and spoke in the kind of voice you have to really listen for to hear.

"I'm sorry sirs, but its too late. You have to go now." The nurse informed Lestrade, looking at Sherlock with a scared expression.

"Can my friend Sherlock get a room please?" Lestrade asked politely.

"Does he need medical care?"

"No, but he can only be here. If he doesn't get to stay with a patient by the name of John Watson, he'll have to go back to jail. I would really appreciate it if he could get a room, just until his brother and him and work something out." Lestrade asked as politely as he could.

"Oh, if that is the case, then yes, of course." The nurse replied, a smile on her face. "Right this way."

The blue-clad nurse led Sherlock, who Lestrade still had to drag, to the elevator. As the three-some stepped in and the door closed shut, the woman pressed the 6 button. The sixth floor.

"My name is Jenny." The nurse informed Sherlock and Lestrade.

"Hi, Jenny." Lestrade replied awkwardly. The nurse beamed, and stepped out as the elevator deposited them on the sixth floor.

"Right this way." Jenny showed Lestrade the path. The walked down the hall in silence, only disturbed by a wailing of a child in a room they past. Wails of fear and pain. Nurse Jenny stopped and opened the door to room 11.

'You'll be lodging here until morning, Mr. Holmes." Jenny broke the silence.

"Thanks so much, nurse." Lestrade was truly grateful that the detective wouldn't have to return to jail.

Lestrade flopped Sherlock onto the bed, and pulled the blanket up to his chin. Lestrade turned off the lights and nearly left, but before he did he turned an looked at Sherlock.

"I'll come see John early. Be….Careful." The inspector hesitated, then closed the door gently, down the elevator, signed out, out the front door, in a cab, and into his own bed.


	16. Chapter 16

"I don't understand why he could just get a room, why they just let him out of jail." Lestrade said, trying for the umpteenth time to strike conversation with Mycroft.

"Me." Mycroft responded. It was the first word the detective's brother had said in the last hour and a half.

"I'm sorry?" Lestrade inquired.

"I take care of my little brother." Mycroft replied simply, and suddenly Lestrade understood.

Sherlock sat at John's bed side for the last seven months. That's how long it has been since the accident. Every night Sherlock slept on the pull-out sofa, refusing to move to the room next door. Every morning Lestrade brought him a cup of tea, two pieces of toast with jam, and a piece of bacon. Every morning Sherlock shoved them down his throat like he hadn't been fed for a week. He didn't eat or drink for the rest of the nights.

For the days, before the sun rose and an hour after the sun set, Sherlock sat still in the chair next to John's bed.

Sherlock always made sure John had a wool blanket tucked up under his armpits, and that his pillows where fluffed. Sometimes, he dabbed John's fore-head with a wet cloth, and down his neck. He made sure John had clean and comfy cloths.

Sherlock monitored John's feeding and hydration tubes, making sure they were never dirty or clogged and that his life-giving forces functioned properly.

The detective didn't take a case, and London was not suffering. The whole of the city seemed to be holding its breath, and sitting at John's bedside with Sherlock.

Sherlock kept John's finger and toenails clipped, and although he could not give John a bath, he kept him as clean as he possibly could.

The nurses continued to complain.

"He gets in the way."

"It doesn't really matter."

"Why is he so intensive?"

"He should just leave, and we should put his friend to death. He'll never get better."

Mycroft would never allow it. The brother had become rather fond of John himself.

"NO" Would always be Mycroft Holmes response to these complaints.

"It's been a year. Don't you think its time to end this?" Lestrade gently asked Sherlock one day. Once upon a time, a year ago, Sherlock would have looked up at Lestrade with tears of pain and loneliness. But that was a year ago. He didn't even look up any more. He didn't ever cry or whisper to himself. He didn't talk to John, or read to him anymore. He just sat and watched.

"Not yet." Was Sherlock's only reply. Since he stopped talking to John, his voice had become weak with lack of use. The only time he talked was when Lestrade asked Sherlock to end this. There was that one time where a nurse had tried to disconnect John in the middle in the night, at which time Sherlock had screeched like a banshee and blocked the nurse away from John's ever slumbering body.

"Two years." Lestrade told Sherlock. Every month, he didn't ever try to reason with Sherlock anymore. He just told the detective how long it had been since the bus's breaks had snapped and run right over John and put him into this endless sleep. Sherlock didn't even respond, he only waved Lestrade away briskly.

"Four years."

"I know, Lestrade!" Sherlock roared. "I know how long it's been. But I won't be responsible for another murder."

Lestrade's manor faltered. He understood now. Sherlock couldn't murder anyone anymore, never again. John was his best friend. You wouldn't kill your best friend. Even if that friend was asleep, and so it was destroying that person. But you don't kill a best friend, even if that friend was practically dead.

"Ready?" Mycroft asked, his hand strong on Sherlock's faltering shoulder. The detective wouldn't cry.

"Yes." Sherlock replied in a chocked voice. A voice so unused for the last 15 years, it sounded ready to shatter.

The nurse stepped forward and touched John's cheek. Her hand flew down to John's adnominal area, where the feeding and hydration tubes were found. The heart rate and respiration monitor was left on John's finger at Sherlock's request. Strong.

The nurse gently untapped the hydration tube, and removed it. Still strong.

Next came the feeding tube. Still strong.

"He should die within the next week." The nurse replied bluntly. This man had been here ever since her first day, eight years ago. Sherlock bit his lip and nodded.


	17. [Ending One: Death]

Why John,

Do you lie there

Oh so still.

Painfully still.

Your face pale;

You don't eat o r drink;

Your breathing has s lowed

To a crawl.

I don't cry for y ou a nymore.

The pain is not g one;

It will n ever be gone.

Your blood became c old.

You die and you drift a way fr om me without dreams.

I miss y our brilliant  insights, 

I miss you:

Every time I think,

Every time I speak,

I think of you.

It is all I can focus on,

When my mind blurs,

And tears swell.

You  sleep in a bed

Not all that far;  only live a few b locks away, 

but it feels l ike miles c ompared to the be d

Just up the stairs

From my own.

I watched your breaths s top,

And your c hest s top m oving,

And your eyes stop d reaming.

I saw shadows in the night,  


And wanted them to be you.

So much,

I loved y ou with the full capacity f f my full heart:

It was never full before,

You but you came

And filled it.  


Full of pains and l oves and hugs and want.

"Upon a farewell my dear Watson, my old mate and chap. I so bid a tearful goodbye

As I must leave now

But when you close your eyes and lay your head upon a pillow

Remember and dream about me

As I do the same for you"


	18. [Ending Two: Life]

John's eyes fluttered open, nearly anyways. Sherlock gasped. He jumped up and went to John's bed. His face was pale, a few days of no food or water and over 6 years of sunlight only streaming in through a window onto a poorly cleaned floor. And that's only when the sun was out from behind shady rain clouds.

"John…." Sherlock whispered. The doctor's eyes fluttered again, so close to snapping and staying open.

"I am going insane." Sherlock said allowed. He looked away and John opened his eyes. Baby blue eyes.

"Sherlock…" John tried. Sherlock's head whipped round and he scooped up John.

"I love you John."

"I love you, Sherlock."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I honestly feel like i've preserved a piece of my own fandom history now that this is finally done being posted, lol.   
> This was my first ever interaction with/addition to fandom.
> 
> Thank you to anyone who is still reading!

**Author's Note:**

> I am no longer writing for this fandom, but I am still writing if you're interested! Come party on my writing Tumblr: Queer Canary Writes (or come hit up my personal blog Saraa-Lancee)
> 
> I think its kind of interesting that my style of short-and-sweet chapters really hasn't changed over time, lol.


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